


4 Days in New Orleans

by arctichamster



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Canon Backstory, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Male Friendship, fill in the blanks, it had to be done
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 01:58:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 15,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7386241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arctichamster/pseuds/arctichamster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which House bails his future best friend out of jail because he was bored. *NOTE: A repost of the original story, to reflect chapter consolidation and minor clean up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> T: Language  
> G House/J Wilson/OC  
> Summary: In which House bails his future best friend out of jail because he was bored.
> 
> A/N1: Canonical references:  
> Birthmarks S5x04  
> Lockdown S6x17  
> Knight Fall S6x18  
> Open and Shut S6x19 
> 
> A/N2: Standard Disclaimer. Not mine. I’m just filling in some blanks here and there. That force of nature known as Gregory House, created by Shore on paper and Laurie on screen will never be replicated and never be forgotten. My deepest thanks to them both. Special thanks to Doris Egan and David Foster for writing Birthmarks and giving us the backstory on how this friendship came to be. Additional thanks to the entire [H] writing staff, without whom we would never have these great stories and lines to chew on and expound upon.
> 
> A/N3: Many thanks to HOUSEocdfan,, BabalooBlue, and Visitkarte for the beta and BlossomYoung42 for the edits. Comments and/or reviews gratefully accepted if you see fit. And of course: All mistakes are my own.

Summer 1991  
New Orleans, Louisiana

Wednesday

Dr. James Wilson checked into the Riverside Hotel early in the afternoon. He was two years into his Oncology residency at Windsor Rocks Cancer Institute in Windsor, New Jersey and was excited to be attending his first medical conference. There were several symposiums he was looking forward to and he hoped to pick the brains of some of the top physicians in their field during the 4-day long event.

He made his way up to his room on the third floor, a small suitcase in one hand and garment bag slung over his shoulder. Opening the door, he glanced around at the most basic of amenities inside. He stashed his suitcase and garment bag in the small closet next to the door. Wilson walked over to the bed and sat down on the edge, sighing as he stared at the phone on the nightstand before walking across the room to sit on the edge of the bed. Wilson stared at the phone on the nightstand and sighed. He knew he should call his wife, let her know that he got in okay, but his heart really wasn’t in it. This was the first break he’d had in ages, between the long hours at the hospital and trying to hold down two jobs so Sam could do that unpaid internship he’d encouraged her to take. He was killing himself to keep them afloat financially, yet it seemed like they were drifting further and further apart emotionally. They’d barely spoken to each other for months except in passing. 

Wilson sighed again and picked up the phone, dialing the number to their apartment and knowing that he’d likely be talking to himself on the machine. But he felt obligated to at least let Sam know he’d arrived, so he sadly listened to their happy voices on the outgoing message before leaving his contact information at the conference. Hanging up the phone, he took off his jacket and tie, carefully putting them both on hangars in the closet. He unbuttoned the collar and rolled up the sleeves of his too-small shirt and was reminded once again to ask Sam not to put his shirts in the dryer. That was just one of many little things Sam never seemed to think about that Wilson considered to be common sense. He never mentioned them to her, not wanting to start an argument over something so trivial, but it still nagged at him. 

Moving to stretch out on the bed to unwind from the trip, Wilson’s last conscious thought before his head hit the pillow was, _Man, I had no idea I was so tired…_

\-------------------------

It was late when Dr. Gregory House checked into the Riverside Hotel. He was in town for a 4-day long medical conference that he only agreed to attend because of its location. He hated these things: Thousands of pompous asses milling around bragging about their jobs and hitting on each other’s spouses and significant others. He was just coming off an 80 hour shift in both the Nephrology ward and the Infectious Diseases unit at Jefferson Memorial Hospital in Princeton, New Jersey and felt like the walking dead as he made his way up to his room on the fifth floor. He dropped his duffle bag and backpack just inside the door and headed for the minibar, where he found himself unsurprised at the pathetic choices inside. 

House pulled out the two miniature bottles of scotch that were in there and poured them into a water glass he found next to the Lilliputian coffee maker. He threw his suit jacket over a chair by the TV and walked over to the bed to sit down on the edge, taking a drink of the amber liquid and glancing around the room. It was pretty basic as rooms went, everything nondescript and generic: Queen-sized bed, headboard and nightstands attached and bolted to the wall, reading lamps anchored to the wall on either side of the headboard. A tall television cabinet was bolted to the opposite wall, a decent sized television inside. _I wonder what the administration would say if I tried to expense a porno or three_ , he idly thought. There was a small desk and chair against the window on the far side of the room, a rather uncomfortable looking easy chair in the corner. The sink and countertop were attached to the mirrored wall next to the bathroom door. The coffee maker with its institutional coffee packets, sugar and powdered creamer, cardboard coffee cups, a second water glass, and an ice bucket were lined up on the counter. From where he sat, House could see the small bathtub and toilet in the cramped bathroom and knew he was going to have to fold himself in half to fit under the shower head. 

Finishing his drink, House lay back on the bed, trying to get his brain to shut down. It was close to midnight and he was expected to show up for the early breakfast being held at the convention center next door in the morning. He dreaded having to go to the damn thing to begin with, but his boss had made it quite clear that if he didn’t go and represent the hospital, he’d be out of a job before the weekend was over. House complained to anyone who would listen that he was only going under duress, but secretly he couldn’t wait to get down to New Orleans and away from the hospital.


	2. Chapter 2

Thursday

Wilson woke up earlier than usual even for him, feeling more relaxed and refreshed than he had in recent memory. He set a miniature pot of coffee to brew while he took a shower, enjoying the feeling of not being rushed for the first time in what seemed like forever. 

When he was done, he dried himself off and wrapped a spare towel around his waist before pouring himself a cup of coffee. He took his time with his morning grooming and dressed, grumbling yet again at the snug fit of his dress shirt as he struggled with the top button. He finished his coffee while knotting his tie and put on his suit jacket. Just as he was about to head out the door he glanced at the clock. Still too early to head next door to the convention center, Wilson wandered over to the window to look out over the river and let his mind drift at the change in scenery. Several long minutes later, he left the room to make his way to the event.

\-------------------------

House slept through the 6am wake up call and only just pulled himself out of a deep sleep to answer the second one at 6:30. He lay there for a couple of minutes trying to kick start his brain before rolling out of bed and heading into the cramped bathroom to relieve his aching bladder. He started the shower, then set the miniature coffee pot to brew while he got in the tub.

Barely taking the time to dry himself, House wrapped a towel around his waist and poured himself a cup of coffee, taking a sip of the steaming liquid in an effort to clear the sleep from his brain. He shaved and dressed quickly, his un-ironed dark blue shirt and grey slacks sticking to the parts of his body that hadn’t yet dried. He pulled on his socks and sneakers and shrugged into the slightly rumpled suit jacket he plucked from the chair. Grabbing his wallet and room key, he headed out the door to the elevators.

\-------------------------

Wilson was amazed at the stagnant wave of heat and humidity that struck him as he left the air conditioned comfort of the hotel. Even at 7:15 in the morning the air felt thick and damp, making it almost hard to breathe. By the time he got to the main entrance of the convention center he was practically sweating through his suit jacket, his shirt sticking to his torso in odd and uncomfortable ways. He opened the door, relishing the blast of cool air that hit him as he entered the building and made his way to the registration tables outside the main exhibit hall. There were only a few people milling around, so he was able to sign in and pick up his badge and conference materials without having to wait in line. Wilson pinned the name badge to his suit jacket and walked into the expanse of the main exhibit hall, marveling at the seemingly endless rows of tables, each one set up to show off their latest technology, procedure, or piece of equipment. He followed the signs to an adjacent room, not nearly as huge as the hall he just left but plenty large enough to seat a good many of the 3000 or so people who were expected to attend the conference that weekend. One of several hostesses led him to a round table, where he chatted with a few other early arrivals as they enjoyed their breakfast from the buffet on the far side of the room.

\-------------------------

House took his time going from the hotel to the convention center. He figured that if he was late enough getting there, no one would notice when he ducked out early. Punctuality had ceased to be an issue with him the moment he left his parents’ home for college. His father, a retired Marine Corps pilot, was a punctual man and House had spent most of his childhood and adolescence in a war of wills with and hating the man who he’d figured out at 12 wasn’t even his biological father. Subsequently, there wasn’t a boss in the world who could make him be on time if he didn’t want to be. 

The steamy morning air hit House like a wet blanket as he took in the sights and sounds of his favorite city, breathing deep of the unique smell that was New Orleans. Wandering over to the convention center, he tried to think of some excuse that might fly if he were to somehow find himself instead at a little café in the French Quarter drinking a decent cup of coffee and munching on a beignet. He shook his head slightly, knowing that any excuse for not being at the conference early would be cause enough to be looking for a new job by Monday and glanced at his watch as he approached the main entrance to the convention center. 

House followed the growing herd making their way to the registration tables outside the main exhibit hall and stood in line for the conference materials he’d likely throw out before the end of the morning session, indulging in the fantasy of registering under someone else’s name and exposing the conference for the networking sham that it was. But when his turn came to sign in he tersely gave his own name to the cheery young woman at the table and collected a name badge (which he had no intention of wearing, instead shoving it into a pocket of his suit jacket) and a bag full of conference materials and assorted propaganda. He merged back into the herd that was headed to the room adjacent to the massive exhibit hall for breakfast and found himself being seated at a table of his worst administrative nightmares. House immediately got up and headed to the buffet, choosing just enough institutional food to fill his stomach. Wanting to be anywhere but there, he returned to the table. _Welcome to hell_ , he thought as he began to shovel food into his mouth.


	3. Chapter 3

Wilson flipped through the conference brochure as he ate, trying to decide where to go first. There was one lecture and Q&A on blood cancers that looked interesting, and another on Pediatric Oncology that seemed intriguing as well. With plenty of time before the first panel started, he sat back to consider his options. The other members of his table had drifted away one by one as they finished their food, realizing that the Oncology resident had nothing to offer that they hadn’t seen a thousand times before. Wilson glanced at his watch as he finished his coffee and left the dining room to look for the blood cancer lecture. 

\-------------------------

House finished his breakfast and immediately left the other occupants at his table. He could hear their comments about his rather disheveled appearance and attitude begin as soon as he turned away from the table and dismissed them out of hand. He wove his way through the ever-growing crowd in his escape from the dining room. Passing by one of the lecture halls, he noticed that the symposium inside had just begun and wandered in, taking a seat at the end of the last row as the physician lecturer finished his opening remarks on blood cancers. _At least it’s not a lecture on how to comfort a dying patient or some shit like that._

House glanced around at the hundred and fifty or so other doctors in the room, recognizing some and labeling them all dull and narcissistic asses. The lecture itself was rather interesting as those things went so he stayed until the end, watching as the herd filed out of the room. He spotted a wide-eyed young doctor moving with the crowd, an anomaly for these kinds of conferences, and decided to follow him around for awhile to break the tedium. Not surprisingly, House was bored and it would be a very long time until lunch. He had no idea how he was going to survive four days of this nonsense, but at least he’d be able to escape into the jazz and blues clubs in the Quarter as soon as the conference ended for the day. _Something to look forward to_ , he thought as he followed the fresh-faced doctor to wherever he was going next.

\-------------------------

Wilson attended a couple more lectures before the lunch break, then spent the afternoon wandering the massive main exhibit hall. There wasn’t much there that he’d be able to use as an Oncologist, but he had to admit there were some very cool things that would soon be available to hospitals and individual practices. It was impossible to take it all in and eventually he wandered back out to the registration area, where the crowds were lighter with only a couple of small groups milling about. He sat down on a bench and leaned his head back against the plate glass window behind him, taking a breather before tackling the masses again.

\-------------------------

House followed the young doctor, who was obviously at his first medical conference, as he attended two more lectures before lunch, one of which was on the dreaded subject of comforting a dying patient. The way this guy was paying attention to the speaker, House figured that he probably didn’t have much experience with patients dying. Judging from his demeanor, he probably didn’t have a whole lot of experience being a doctor either. There was something about his idealism that was a refreshing change to the hundreds of older, greying, jaded physicians who seemed to have made a career of attending medical conferences. House had seen their kind before, traveling in packs, already making plans to meet at a conference being held in Geneva three months away even as they discussed attending an upcoming conference in Aspen the following weekend. But this young guy, he was different, and so House continued to follow him around. _The only person at this whole fucking event who’s not boring_ , he thought. When the guy sat down on a bench by the window, leaning his head back against the plate glass window with his eyes closed, House caught a glimpse of his name tag. _Dr. James Wilson._ He could see that the kid was overwhelmed by the whole experience so he took the opportunity to head outside for a smoke and a change of scenery. Wilson stuck out like a sore thumb. House would have no trouble finding him amongst the masses of medical idiots roaming the convention center.

\-------------------------

House wandered down the block to a small storefront and bought himself a large coffee. He groaned with pleasure at the first sip of the ambrosia and drank half of it on the short walk back to the convention center. He spotted a knot of smokers outside the main doors and placed himself well away from them. House had no interest in engaging in idle conversation so he leaned against the side of the building with his coffee, setting it down only long enough to light his cigarette and savored both as he let the sights and sounds of the city envelope him.


	4. Chapter 4

Wilson had no interest in exploring New Orleans once the conference ended for the day. He headed back to his room, exhausted both mentally and physically from the experience. Closing the door behind him, Wilson leaned back against it and sighed, relishing the silence. After a moment he pushed off the door, taking off his suit jacket and hanging it up carefully before sitting on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes. He loosened his tie and glanced at the phone to see if the message light was flashing. It wasn’t. Sighing again, he pulled the tie over his head and tossed it toward the chair. He was beyond the point of caring when the tie landed on the floor instead. 

Wilson lay back and contemplated what was left of his marriage, trying to figure out where they had gone wrong. He and Sam had only been married a little over a year. They’d met and fallen in love while in medical school and impulsively decided to get married during that brief break before beginning their respective residencies. Almost immediately they began to fight over trivial things and the fact that they hardly ever saw each other only added to the strain. Those few hours during the week that they were actually together in their cramped apartment Wilson spent trying to placate Sam’s occasionally volatile temper. He hated that part of himself, always wanting to smooth things over, to avoid conflict with those closest to him. He considered calling the apartment to see if Sam had gotten home from work, but couldn’t bear the thought of hearing the answering machine message again. Too agitated to think about food or much of anything else, he lay there trying to process the sorry state of his life until he fell into a troubled sleep.

\-------------------------

The moment the conference ended for the day, House was out the door of the convention center and headed for the nearest bar that was not located at the hotel. He ducked into a darkened doorway that opened into an even darker space. About a dozen patrons sat along the well-worn bar drinking their drinks on stools that looked as though they’d been there since the day the doors first opened. House took up residence on one of them and ordered a double bourbon from the wizened old bartender. Taking a long pull from the glass, he took a moment to survey the room, pleased to see that no one else from the conference had discovered the place. A small stage with an upright piano, a couple of battered guitars, and several traditional zydeco instruments took up the far end of the establishment, fronted by an equally small dance floor. The stage lights were on low, a signal that the musicians were between sets.

House’s gaze was instinctively drawn to the piano. It looked as though it had been rooted to that spot forever, almost as if the bar had been built around it. His mind drifted as he imagined the players whose hands had touched those keys over the years. He drained his glass and signaled the bartender for another. When the barman came down to refill House’s glass, House asked him how long it would be until the next set. The bartender looked over at the stage and shrugged.

“Depends on who gets up there to play. We don’t hold much on formality here.” 

House thought he had died and gone to heaven, whatever that was. He wanted nothing more than to take his drink and spend the rest of the evening at that piano, losing himself in the music much like he did at home. The barman recognized the look of longing on the man’s face. He had seen it countless times over the years.

“Y’all play?”

House shrugged. “I do alright.”

“We only have one rule: If it ain’t jazz, blues, or zydeco it don’t belong here. Think y’all can handle it?”

“I guess we’ll see, won’t we?”

House took his drink and made his way over to the piano. He sat down on the ancient bench and took a long pull of the bourbon, setting the glass at the end of the keyboard, where years of water rings told their own story about the piano players who’d been there before him. He laid his hands on the keys and began to play, quickly losing himself in the resonant sounds as the combination of music and alcohol began to ease his mind.

Heads turned toward the stage with the opening notes. These regulars had seen musicians come and go, and could tell within the first few bars whether the musician was worth his or her mettle. They watched the man at the piano as he filled the room with a sultry blues piece that suited the temperature outside. The bartender smiled to himself as he worked his way down the bar checking on his customers, most of whom wanted to know who the guy at the piano was. The barman shook his head and shrugged as he freshened drinks, signaling to the patrons that he had no idea who the man was.

House was oblivious to it all, content to drink and just let the day’s stresses of having to act like a responsible human being disappear with each note he played. There was no applause as the last notes of the piece drifted away, but every patron’s head was nodding in approval when he looked up from the keyboard. House raised his glass in acknowledgement and drained the contents, then made his way back to sit at the bar. The barman immediately came down and poured another double into House’s glass.

“This round’s on me. What do they call you?”

“House.”

“Well House, you have a much better feel for the music than some people who’ve sat at that keyboard.” The barman offered his hand. “Bill. This is my bar, and y’all are welcome to stay as long as you like.”

House shook Bill’s hand, acknowledging his words with a nod and took another drink. As the bourbon burned its way down to his empty stomach, it occurred to House that he hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast. When Bill turned to make another pass down the bar, House stopped him to ask if there was someplace close by where he might get some decent food. Bill directed him to a diner just up the block that had been in business almost as long as the bar. Finishing his drink, House thanked him as he paid the tab and took his leave, deciding then and there to spend as much time in this place as possible before the conference ended and he made his return to New Jersey.

It only took a couple of minutes for House to find the ancient diner Bill told him about. Inside, he was again pleased to find that the only patrons were locals. Apparently a couple of them had been at the bar earlier as they acknowledged him with a nod and a raised coffee cup when he came in. House made his way to a booth towards the back, noting that the linoleum on the floor looked as cracked and worn as the linoleum on the counter that ran along the opposite side of the room. He sat down, the springs sagging and the ancient vinyl protesting. House picked up the menu from its spot between the the condiment rack and the wall. It looked just as old and worn as the rest of the place. The waitress who took his order looked like original equipment too, which suited House just fine. 

Waiting for his order, House watched the world go by both within the diner and out on the street. There was a noticeably slower pace here than in Princeton that allowed his brain to unwind a bit more. _Of course, those 3 double bourbons I had at the bar might have something to do with it, too_ , he thought as two more patrons he’d seen earlier wandered in and greeted their fellow drinkers at the counter. 

It didn’t take long for House’s order to arrive, a deep bowl of thick gumbo loaded with shrimp, crawfish, sausage and chunks of what looked to House like alligator. He all but moaned in ecstasy as the first spoonful hit his tongue, the mixture of flavors and spices sending his senses into overdrive. Every bite was another new experience. He thought it was quite possible that each spoonful was like a fingerprint, with no two ever being the same. By the time the waitress came back to check on him a few minutes later the bowl was empty and House had slouched into the booth, his eyes closed.

“Liked that, did you?” 

House opened his eyes to see the waitress regarding him with an amused expression. 

“It was incredible. Local catch?”

“Every morning. Bobby adds the ‘gator when one turns up. He makes the sausage, too.”

“Is everything on the menu that good?”

“Never had any complaints. How’d you find this place, anyway? We hardly ever get tourists in here, and the ones we do get usually only stay long enough to turn around and walk back out.”

The waitress watched the man’s face as he told her how he’d come to be in the diner. She took in his intensely blue eyes, watching them light up as he described his relief at finding the bar just down the block from the convention center. She laughed and nodded when House told her that Bill was the one who’d suggested he eat there.

“Yeah, that’s Bill. He an’ I have an understanding. Folks who’re looking for a drink after lunch, I send his way. Folks looking for food after drinking, he sends my way. He don’t get many tourists in there either.” She took in his comfortably disheveled appearance, the stubble forming on his jawline. “But then...you’re not a tourist, are you?”

“Trust me, the last place I want to be is some place that is crawling with drunken tourists -- that is its own private circle of hell. Bad enough that I have to spend 3 more days at a medical conference surrounded by autocratic administrative types who call themselves doctors.” 

The waitress eyed the man in front of her. “Doctor? You sure as hell don’t look like any doctor I’ve ever seen. What do they call you?”

“House.”

“Well, Doc House, my name’s Lisette. Y’all need a break from that conference food over at the convention center, you come back here and I’ll feed you right. Can I interest you in a slice of pecan pie? Bobby’s wife Aimee makes ‘em fresh every morning.” Lisette’s bayou accent washed over House like a warm wave as she pronounced the word “pecan” _pu-KAHN_ instead of _pee-CAN_ like you’d hear anywhere else. 

“If Aimee’s pie is half as good as Bobby’s gumbo, I may never eat anything else again. Yeah, I’ll have a slice. And a coffee. The hotel’s coffee is shit.”

Lisette’s musical laughter carried through the diner as she walked away to get his order. House leaned back into the booth, feeling more relaxed than he’d been in a long time. The day may have started like shit, but this was New Orleans, where good booze, good music, and good food had the ability to do wonders for the soul. He dreaded having to go back to the hotel, to endure another day ( _3 days_ , he corrected himself) at the conference. 

Lisette returned in due course with a huge slice of the best looking pecan pie House had ever seen in one hand and an over-sized mug of coffee in the other. House could feel his mouth begin to water as she set both in front of him, the dueling scents assailing his nose in the best of ways. Lisette stood there and waited for him to taste the pie, watching his eyes slide closed as he savored the first bite. Nodding in approval, she left him to his food and went back to check on her other customers.

House finished the pie and the coffee in short order, finally allowing himself to feel relaxed and sated. He glanced at his watch, noting that it was after midnight. Where did the time go? The last thing he wanted to do was leave the comfort of the diner for the sterility of his hotel room, but he was still feeling the effects of sleep deprivation on top of the bourbon and the food, so he paid his bill at the register, assuring Lisette that he’d be back to eat for as long as he was in town.

House made his way back to the hotel in single-minded pursuit of sleep, the warm humid evening doing nothing to help keep him awake. He entered the lobby in a daze, practically sleepwalking his way up to his room. Before the door had completely closed House had already begun the process of getting out of his clothes, kicking off his sneakers, tossing the jacket over the chair and stripping down to his black boxer briefs. His last act before crawling under the cool crisp sheets was to peel off his socks, leaving them where they fell. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.


	5. Chapter 5

Friday

Wilson lay awake in the early morning hours staring at the ceiling, well before his scheduled wake up call. The previous night’s sleep had been restless as fragments of dreams about the petty fights he and Sam had been having at home left him feeling as if he simply hadn’t slept at all. He glanced over at the phone in his room with a fleeting hope that maybe Sam had called in the middle of the night and that he’d slept through the ringing. The light was dark. His hopes dashed, Wilson returned his gaze to the ceiling and sighed.

Eventually Wilson rolled himself out of bed and absently wandered into the bathroom to relieve his bladder. He regarded himself in the mirror, the sallow color of his skin, the dark circles under his eyes. He thought he looked 10 years older than he did when he checked into the hotel 2 days earlier. As he started the shower and peeled off his undershirt and boxers, he decided to make it a point to stop at the front desk to see if maybe Sam had left a message for him there. 

Wilson took his time showering and grooming, much as he had the previous day, in an effort to maintain some illusion of normalcy. He chose his clothes carefully from the garment bag and dressed with care. When he was finished he once again noticed by his watch that it was too early to leave for the convention center, so he sat in the chair by the window with his fist under his chin and watched the world go by on the river.

\-------------------------

House woke slowly, feeling mildly hungover from the previous night. For the briefest of moments he thought he was at home in his own bed, until he glanced at the clock on the nightstand. _This is not my bedroom._ His next thought as the time on the clock clicked over another minute was, _Oh, fuck. I’m late._ He rolled out of bed, pausing to rest his pounding head in his hands while the world corrected itself and went into the bathroom, sighing in relief at the first piss of the day. He dove into the shower just long enough to clear his brain. Walking back into the main room while he rubbed a towel over his body to get rid of some of the excess water, House grabbed his bag from the floor and tossed it on the bed. He rummaged through it, pulling out a t-shirt and rumpled dress shirt to wear with the jacket and slacks from the previous day. After throwing his clothes on, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror, noting that he looked only slightly worse for wear, even a bit on the rakish side since he couldn’t be bothered to take the time to shave. _I’m late enough as it is_ , he thought, closing the door behind him.

\-------------------------

Wilson sat bolt straight up in the chair, momentarily confused. It suddenly dawned on him that he’d fallen asleep and, glancing at his watch, discovered that he was now late for the second full day of the conference. He grabbed the hotel key from the night stand and hurried out the door.

\-------------------------

House caught a break at the elevators, the doors on one of the cars sliding open to release a couple of drunken hotel guests back from a night of revelry. He dodged around them and pushed the button to the lobby just as they cleared the door, fervently hoping there would be no stops along the way. Two floors later, the elevator came to a stop and House inwardly groaned as the doors slid open and the idealistic-looking young doctor ( _Something Wilson_ , he reminded himself) he’d followed around the day before darted in to stand alongside him. Neither man acknowledged the other as the elevator continued down to the lobby, although House found himself watching the younger man from his periphery. 

As they exited into the lobby, House made for the entrance while noting that Wilson stopped to talk to the clerk at the front desk. House didn’t give the man another thought as he walked through the humid morning to the convention center.

\-------------------------

Wilson checked with the front desk to see if Sam had left any messages for him, remarking to her that he’d been expecting a call from his wife and wasn’t sure if the message light on the phone in his room was working. The clerk typed for a moment into her computer and verified that the light was in fact working, then reached down under the desk for something and handed Wilson a thick Express package. He looked at it, confused, before thanking the clerk and hurrying out the front doors.

\-------------------------

House wandered into one of the main lecture halls, interrupting the speaker, who shot an angry glare at House before picking up where he left off. House had a brief flash of being back in medical school, where such things happened rather frequently, as he ignored the glare and made himself comfortable leaning against the back wall. He listened long enough to figure out that he was once again in an oncology lecture before tuning the speaker out, idly wondering how long it would be before the lunch break so he could get the hell out of there.

\-------------------------

Wilson breathed a sigh of relief as he crossed the threshold into the coolness of the convention center. He had forgotten to bring a schedule with him, still flustered from having arrived late and trying to figure out what was in the Express package he carried with him. Wilson ducked into the first lecture hall he came to. He heard the speaker’s voice stop and could feel angry eyes following him as he made his way into a seat at the back of the hall. Only when he was seated did the speaker resume his lecture. Wilson found himself only half-listening to a seminar on fetal arrhythmia while he took a closer look at the Express package. The sender’s name on the packing slip read “Diamond Fairbairn," with a return address in Trenton. He desperately wanted to know what was inside, but couldn’t bring himself to open it. Especially not there.

When the lecture was over, Wilson made his way onto the main concourse with the rest of the doctors and administrators who had been in attendance. He stopped to pick up another schedule and looked over his choices for the afternoon session as he wandered through the exhibit hall toward the dining room. He balanced a plate on the Express package and filled it with a little bit of everything from the buffet, only then realizing just how hungry he was. He would have preferred to sit alone but all of the tables were occupied, either full of people who laughed and joked and obviously knew each other or sitting 2 or 3 to a table, spread out to give the illusion of dining alone. Wilson chose a table near the back where a few other men and women sat eating, occasionally chatting amongst themselves, and eyed the Express package next to him while he ate.

\-------------------------

The moment the speaker finished his closing remarks, House was out the door, making a beeline for the entrance. His stomach was growling, which only served to make him more irritable as he wove his way through the lunchtime crowd and gawking tourists towards the diner. Dodging around a guy wearing an obnoxious-looking Hawaiian shirt, Bermuda shorts, black socks and sandals, and carrying a plastic hurricane glass containing some foul-looking brew, House slid through the door of the diner. He took a moment to enjoy the near-silence as the door closed behind him, the rattle of an ancient fan providing the only air movement in the place. Again he was pleased to see that only locals occupied the counter and booths, the diner busier than it had been the night before. Sliding into a booth as far from the door as he could get, House felt the tenseness begin to ease from his body as tantalizing aromas from the kitchen hit his nose. 

It only took a couple of minutes for the waitress to approach his table, carrying an oversized mug and a fresh pot of coffee. She looked to House to be a younger version of Lisette and moved through the diner with a grace and a familiarity with the layout of the establishment as if she’d been there for years.

“Y’all must be Doc House. Lisette told me to expect you,” the waitress stated as she set the mug on the table and filled it. 

House nodded as realization dawned. “And you must be Aimee. What’s good today?”

Aimee chuckled at House’s observation. “Bobby’s got a snapper soup that’s been simmerin’ since early this morning. You interested?”

“Absolutely."

House ordered a soda to go with the soup, and sat back to watch the chaos of the foot traffic outside. He finished his coffee while he waited, enjoying the inherent sweetness of chicory in the blend and made a mental note to pick up a bag or two to bring home with him after the conference.

Aimee returned with a large deep bowl of what initially looked very much like the gumbo House had eaten the night before but with more of a tomato base and a hint of sherry. It was thick, almost like a stew, loaded with chunks of turtle meat and diced hard-boiled egg, the creole spices delighting his senses. As House tucked into his meal, Aimee returned with his drink, a loaf of traditional french bread and a small plastic pot of butter. He nodded his thanks in between bites as he continued to eat like a man on a mission. 

By the time Aimee finished her circuit of checking on the other diners, House was using the last slice of french bread to try and capture the essences that remained in the bowl. She smiled and nodded in approval as she approached his table and saw him lean back and relax with a look of satisfaction.

“Looks like snapper soup agrees with you, Doc.”

House glanced up at Aimee with a small smile of satisfaction. “It did.”

“Got room for pie?”

House glanced at his watch, realizing that the afternoon session was about to get underway. He took all of 2 seconds to decide.

“Always.”

Aimee took his bowl and left, returning with a slice easily a full quarter of an entire pecan pie and a fresh pot of coffee. Not that House was complaining -- it tasted so good he was pretty sure he could have eaten the whole pie himself. When he was finished, he glanced at his watch again, sighing, and reluctantly made his way to the register.

Back out on the street, House found that the lunch crowd had thinned considerably and consisted mostly of annoying tourists, well on their way to becoming annoying drunken tourists. He hurried back to the convention center, for once breathing a sigh of relief to be back inside. Glancing around the concourse, House spotted Wilson. He noticed that the guy seemed to be a lot more distracted than he had been the previous day. House also noticed that he was carrying an Express envelope he hadn’t had before. Intrigued, House decided to follow the new doctor around again for the rest of the day.


	6. Chapter 6

After considerable debate with himself, Wilson decided to attend a symposium on Internal Medicine for Oncology, Neurology, Rheumatology, and Psychiatry. He walked into the lecture hall a few minutes early and took a seat in the back of the room. He would rather have been anywhere else but didn’t want to be alone, especially in a strange city. He would take the small amount of solace he was able to find amongst others in his profession and the familiarity of the topic. It was just what he needed to distract him from the Express package that seemed to taunt him as it lay there on his lap. He listened to the speaker drone on about some of the new breakthroughs in molecular oncology research and related topics that he was already learning about in his residency, but found that he couldn’t follow along with the accompanying PowerPoint presentation because his gaze kept drifting back to the large envelope. _I should just get it over with, tear the damn thing open and see what’s inside_ , he thought, even as he couldn’t bring himself to actually do it.

\--------------------------

House stood in the back of the lecture hall and watched his distracted quarry without being noticed. Judging from the topic of the symposium and others he had followed his target into, House concluded that this Wilson guy had chosen Oncology as his specialty. _Either that or he’s got a real thing for hanging out with dying patients_. He could see that the Express package was still in Wilson’s lap and looked to be unopened. He watched as the other man glanced up at the PowerPoint slide on the screen, then back down to the envelope. This continued for the length of the lecture, annoying House. _Just open the fucking thing already!_ House yelled at him silently. He decided it was time to get a closer look at that envelope at his earliest opportunity.

\--------------------------

Wilson was lost in thought as the speaker finished his closing remarks and the attendees began to file out of the room like so much cattle. He found himself staring at the packing slip on the package, the sender’s name and address running on a loop in his head. _Diamond Fairbairn. Diamond Fairbairn. Diamond Fairbairn._ The name, which sounded suspiciously like a law firm, quickly burned itself into his brain. He tried to think of all the reasons a law firm might be sending him anything. He wasn’t in trouble with the hospital, so that couldn’t be it. He simply couldn’t figure it out. 

The sudden and complete silence in the lecture hall after the doors clicked shut caused Wilson to startle from his thoughts. He looked around, surprised to find the room empty. Gathering his things, he made his way out to the concourse barely aware of his surroundings. 

\--------------------------

House could practically hear Wilson thinking as he gathered his things and left the lecture hall, never noticing that House hadn’t left his spot against the wall. He gave the younger man a 30 second head start, then followed him out onto the concourse. Wilson wasn’t hard to spot. He was wandering aimlessly, eventually ending up in the main exhibit hall where he wandered the aisles for the next hour, stopping at the occasional demonstration table but looking at nothing. 

At one point Wilson was persuaded to test the weight of a new piece of equipment, requiring him to set his things down on the table. House took the opportunity to sidle up alongside him, feigning interest, and got a look at the packing slip on the envelope. While he didn’t recognize the specific name of the sender, he thought that it sounded suspiciously like a law firm. He watched Wilson’s distracted profile as he nodded absently at the rep, handing back the implement and gathering his things. He walked away from the table without a word.

\--------------------------

Wilson couldn’t take it anymore. He had to know what was inside the Express package. He headed for the nearest bathroom and locked himself into a stall. When the door closed behind the last man to leave and the room was silent, Wilson pulled the tab on the envelope. He held his breath as he pulled out a thick sheaf of documents and read the cover letter. Diamond Fairbairn was indeed a law firm, one that specialized in divorce law. He let out an involuntary bark of incredulous disbelief. _She did it. She actually fucking did it. And had the papers delivered here?!_ Wilson thumbed through the paperwork, tears pricking at his eyes as his brain struggled to process the information. 

\--------------------------

House watched Wilson go into the bathroom, and when he didn’t come out after several minutes surmised that he had finally decided to open the package. Lingering outside the door, House heard the sound of incredulity and anguish that confirmed his suspicions. It didn’t affect him one way or the other, but it did serve to make him that much more curious as to how the young doctor was going to handle the situation. 

\--------------------------

Time stood still as comprehension sank into Wilson’s brain. Feelings of profound sadness and confusion vied with feelings of anger and frustration for control of Wilson’s body. He got to his feet shakily and left the stall. He walked over to the sinks and splashed cold water on his face in an effort to regain his composure, to no avail. As he looked at his shell-shocked image in the mirror, Wilson lashed out and slammed the heel of his hand into the wall in a rare physical display. Pain coursed through his hand and wrist, just enough to distract him from the chaos in his mind. He took a deep breath, exhaling loudly as he pulled himself together, straightening his tie and adjusting his suit jacket. Regarding his reflection once more, Wilson slid the calm, rational visage he’d learned to put on before meeting with one of his terminal patients. He picked up his things and walked back out into the crowd.

\-------------------------

House watched Wilson finally emerge from the restroom, his face neutral and strained. He pushed off the wall to follow Wilson at a distance, finding this way more interesting than going from boring lecture to boring lecture like he was back in medical school. Unfortunately, Wilson did just that.

\--------------------------

Leaving the restroom, Wilson knew that he didn’t want to be alone. _But I sure as hell don’t want to talk to anyone, either._ He decided that the best way to do both was to bounce from lecture to lecture until the conference ended for the day, after which he planned to go over to the hotel bar and get as drunk as humanly possible.

\--------------------------

3 hours and 4 mind-numbing lectures later, House followed Wilson back to the hotel. He was surprised when Wilson veered away from the bank of elevators and straight into the bar, parking himself on a stool and ordering a double something from the bartender. As House pulled up his own bar stool, he saw Wilson throw back whatever he was drinking and overheard him tell the bartender to “keep them coming.” This amused House, who thought that Wilson barely looked old enough to drink at all. _Definitely not boring_ , House mused as he sat back with his own drink to see how things unfolded.

\--------------------------

Wilson was into his third double scotch when it occurred to him that he’d been hearing the same song on the jukebox for quite awhile. He was about to ask the bartender if there was a problem with the machine when he spotted a guy feeding it quarters, each time selecting the same song number. As the bartender refilled his glass yet again, Wilson heard the song, ‘Leave a Tender Moment Alone’ by Billy Joel, start over. His brain fast numbing from the alcohol he rarely drank, Wilson lost count of how many times the song had played in a loop since he’d sat down. The more times the song repeated, the more annoyed Wilson became. He tried reasoning politely with the guy, all but begging him to choose another song. The guy laughed at him and fed more quarters into the jukebox.

Wilson stared at himself in the massive antique mirror behind the bar, getting angrier and more resentful by the minute at the asshole who kept playing that damn song. He yelled at the guy to play something else, _anything_ else -- which caused the guy to laugh even harder and feed a few more quarters into the jukebox.

When the song began yet again, Wilson’s head dropped to the bar for a moment. He looked up, caught another glimpse of his drunken visage and downed what was left in his glass. Then he grabbed the nearest bottle from behind the bar and threw it as hard as he could at that damned mirror. The bottle shattered against his image, putting a huge crack in it. Two other guys at the bar let out a cheer and promptly threw their own shot glasses into the mirror, bringing the whole thing down and instantly causing a fight between them and the bartender. 

\--------------------------

House watched with fascinated delight as the whole event unfolded in front of him. The police arrived in short order, arresting everyone involved and House watched as Wilson was handcuffed and read his rights before being taken away. House paid for his drinks, gave a statement to the police, and left for his room.


	7. Chapter 7

Saturday

Wilson was taken to the nearest New Orleans police precinct, where he was booked, fingerprinted, strip searched and placed into what was referred to as “the drunk tank” without his jacket, dress shirt, shoes, tie, and belt. He considered himself lucky that they let him keep his pants and socks.

His head swimming, Wilson sat on the thin mat on the floor and leaned back against the wall of the small cell. He was mortified at the thought of having to call Sam and explain what had happened. Considering she’d just served him with divorce papers, he was convinced that she’d let him sit there until his bond hearing on Monday just out of spite. He’d been charged with Vandalism, Destruction of Property, and Assault -- although he couldn’t for the life of him figure out where that last charge came from. 

Resigned to spending the weekend in jail, Wilson closed his eyes and tried to sleep, images of throwing the bottle of booze into that antique mirror replaying itself in his mind. He dozed fitfully, wishing that they had at least given him a blanket.

\--------------------------

House went up to his room and crashed. His last coherent thought before the darkness claimed him was, _The only person at the entire fucking conference who isn’t boring, and he goes and gets himself arrested._

\--------------------------

House allowed himself to catch up on some much-needed sleep, waking up in his own time and going through his morning routine at his own pace. He briefly considered making an appearance at the conference and just as quickly discounted it. He had way more interesting things to do. 

As he was tying his sneakers to head over to the diner for breakfast, House noticed a worn copy of the Yellow Pages on the bottom shelf of the nightstand. He took it and a hotel notepad and shoved them both into his backpack before heading out.

House arrived at the diner to find it nearly packed with locals. Lisette noticed his tall, lanky form when he came in and directed him to a stool at the end of the counter next to the wall. As House sat down she saw that he was dressed casually in jeans and t-shirt with a backpack slung over his right shoulder. He was clean-shaven, which she thought made for an interesting change from the last time she’d seen him. Lisette made her way down the counter with a fresh pot of coffee, systematically refilling mugs. By the time she got to House, he was flipping through the Yellow Pages and making notes from the listings for attorneys.

“Getting yourself into trouble already, Doc? You’ve only been in town a few days.”

House looked up at Lisette and shot her a cocky grin. “That doesn’t sound like me.”

Lisette filled a mug and put it in front of him, chuckling. “F’true, boo? That look alone’ll get you into all kinds of trouble ‘round here.” She pulled out an order pad from her apron pocket. “Y’all know what you’re gonna have?”

House took a quick glance at the menu and ordered biscuits with sausage gravy, cheese grits, and a beignet. Lisette nodded with approval as she went off to give Bobby the order. When she returned several minutes later with his food, House’s stomach growled. He’d been so preoccupied that he hadn’t realized just how hungry he was. Lisette barely set the plates down before House began to dig in. 

“You really need a lawyer, Doc?” Lisette asked as she watched him eat.

“Yeah. There was a bar fight at the hotel last night. I need to go bail someone out of jail. The lawyer’s for him.” House shoveled more food into his mouth.

Lisette pulled out her order pad again and jotted down a name and phone number. Tearing off the slip of paper, she handed it to House saying, “Call this guy. Give him my name. He’ll do right by your friend.” She pulled a set of keys out of her pocket and dropped them on the counter in front of House. “Here. Car’s in the back. You’ll know it when you see it. Easier than trying to get a taxi this time of day.”

House thanked her between bites. Lisette nodded and left him to finish his breakfast, returning only to refill his coffee as she made her rounds of the diner. When he was finished House left enough to cover the bill and a sizable tip under his coffee mug. Lisette never saw him leave.

\-------------------------

Wilson woke slowly to a banging sound that seemed to coincide with the pounding in his skull. He opened his eyes, the glaring light in the cell that had burned all night only making the pounding worse. Lifting his head slightly, Wilson could see a guard looking at him as he unlocked the cell and swung open the reinforced steel door.

“Wilson!” The guard barked at him. “Y’all made bail. Let’s go.”

Immensely confused in addition to being monumentally hungover, Wilson followed the guard meekly to the caged window where he collected and signed for his personal property. After putting on his shirt, belt and shoes, and stuffing his tie into the pocket of his suit jacket, Wilson was released. He walked out of the building carrying the Express package and a manila envelope that contained his other personal effects into unfamiliar surroundings and bright sunlight that stabbed through his eyeballs even worse than the lights in the cell. He had just started walking toward the street to hail a cab when he was intercepted by a tall athletic guy in jeans and a t-shirt with a backpack slung over his shoulder.

“I took care of it,” the man said.

Wilson looked at him, bewildered, the words not quite sinking into his still-muddled brain. The man studied him closely, tilting his head slightly. “I took care of it,” he repeated.

Wilson finally found his voice. “Who _are_ you?”

House handed him the piece of paper with the lawyer’s name and phone number on it. “Greg House. Give this guy a call and he’ll be there at your arraignment on Monday.”

Wilson read the information on the slip of paper, then eyed the man in front of him again. “Where did you come from? How did you know I was here? I don’t -- “

House chuckled at Wilson’s confusion. “The convention was boring. You weren’t. Throwing that bottle into the mirror just sealed it.”

“You saw that?!”

“Yeah. Fucking brilliant. I was going to buy you a drink after that, but those two idiots threw their shot glasses and brought the whole thing down, then got into a brawl with the bartender. Didn’t see much point once the police arrived.”

“I had nothing to do with that fight!”

“I know. But I’m not the one you have to convince.” House pointed at the piece of paper still in Wilson’s hand. “Call this guy. He’s going to see about cutting a deal at your arraignment. He’ll be expecting you.” He turned and started to walk away, saying over his shoulder, “C’mon. I need coffee. Hungry?”

Wilson shoved the paper into his pocket and hurried to catch up with the taller man, falling into step alongside him. His mind swam with questions. They walked to the parking lot across the driveway from Booking and Release. House pulled out a set of keys and unlocked the driver’s door of a beautifully restored classic sedan. He slid behind the wheel and reached across to unlock the passenger door for Wilson, who sighed audibly in relief that his ordeal was over as he got into the car.

Wilson leaned his head back against the headrest, then remembered that he hadn’t introduced himself. He turned to House and offered his hand.

“I’m sorry. Thank you. I didn’t mean to… I’m…”

“Dr. James Wilson.” House finished for him, ignoring the offered hand. “From the lectures I saw you at, I’m guessing you’re probably an Oncology resident, haven’t been out of medical school all that long.”

Wilson pulled his hand back and looked at House, mouth agape, as House continued. “You got an Express package yesterday morning at the hotel. You carried it around the conference all day -- you wouldn’t let it go and you wouldn’t open it. I saw the return address, which looked like it belonged to a law firm. The look on your face when you came out of the bathroom told me that you’d probably been served with divorce papers and I wanted to see what you’d do next.”

“You were _following_ me?!”

House shrugged as he started the car. “I was bored.”


	8. Chapter 8

House drove to the diner, turning down a narrow alley to park in the back. Wilson was still processing the intuitiveness of the man next to him as they got out of the car and entered the diner from the rear of the building. The smell of food made Wilson realize that he hadn’t eaten in over 24 hours. It smelled incredible, even as it made his stomach do a slow barrel roll.

They got a booth, and Lisette made her way to their table bearing a fresh pot of coffee and 2 mugs. House passed the keys to her, and she slid them back into her pocket before filling both mugs.

“Sweet ride. You do the restoration yourself?” 

Lisette laughed and swatted House in the arm with her note pad. 

‘‘Course not. Bobby’s little brother Jimmy does things with cars like Bobby does with food. He tore it all the way down to almost nothing, built it right back up.”

“Impressive,” House said with admiration. He rarely spoke so effusively, but it had been known to happen.

“It really is a beautiful car.” Wilson enthused somewhat weakly. His stomach growled audibly even as it continued its slow barrel roll of nausea, and his head continued its incessant pounding.

Lisette regarded Wilson, taking in his drawn features and rather pained expression. The doc’s friend looked like he hadn’t slept in a week. Although she’d heard the growling of his stomach, he surely didn’t look like someone much interested in food.

“So, what can I get you boys?”

Still full from his own breakfast, House declined more food. The internal debate was evident on Wilson’s face -- one that would, in House’s mind, have continued for days had Lisette not seen it as well and made the decision for him.

“Be right back,” she told Wilson with a mysterious grin and a nod as she turned and walked away. She returned momentarily with a tall glass of ginger ale, several packets of saltines, a short glass of orange juice, and a packet of extra strength headache powder. 

Wilson looked up gratefully at Lisette and thanked her, taking a sip of ginger ale. She nodded at him as House raised his coffee mug in a toast before she returned to the other patrons in the diner. Wilson took another sip of the ginger ale, noting to himself that it had a somewhat different taste than what he was used to. It certainly seemed to help settle his stomach better. He tore open one of the packets of saltines, feeling his stomach settle a bit more as he nibbled at something solid.

A few minutes later Lisette returned to the table with an order of dry toast, which she also placed in front of Wilson. She winked at him and walked away without a word. Wilson looked over at House in confusion.

House chuckled. “I think Lisette likes you.”

Wilson finished the first saltine in the packet and started in on the second. “How long have you known her?” 

House shrugged. “Since I got into town on Thursday.” He took another swallow of chicory coffee goodness, then reached across the table and snagged a piece of toast off of Wilson’s plate, calmly munching as he watched Wilson marvel at the audacity of the man across from him.

“What did you say your name was again?”

“House.”

“And you don’t live here? You’re just here for the conference?”

“Yep.”

“Where do you practice?”

House shot Wilson an exasperated look. “What is this, 20 Questions?”

Wilson reached for the orange juice, brought the glass to his lips. House stopped him before he had a chance to take a sip.

“You might want to add the powder first.”

Wilson picked up the packet of headache powder, turning it over in his hands and noting that the ingredients were acetaminophen, aspirin, and caffeine. Nodding gingerly as he opened the packet and dumped the contents into his juice, he picked up a spoon and stirred the powder into the liquid.

“Now drink.”

Wilson did as he was told, the orange juice made slightly bitter with the addition of the powder. He picked up a piece of toast and ate it slowly, occasionally sipping from the glass of ginger ale. He had to admit that he was starting to feel less queasy. Within a few minutes, even the pounding in his head had lessened to an extent. His mind somewhat clearer, Wilson contemplated the man sitting across from him.

He was several years older than himself, with the long, lanky, athletic form and slightly weathered look that suggested plenty of time spent outdoors. His brown hair looked like it had never seen a proper haircut, yet he had taken the time to shave, and Wilson found himself mildly startled at how blue his eyes were. They watched him impassively but Wilson would swear he could see a hint of both sly impishness and clever brilliance somewhere within. Wilson was still impressed with how perceptive and observant House had been in sizing him up simply by following him around the conference, but then he himself had been completely overwhelmed by the experience and remembered almost nothing about it.

Wilson felt well enough after a time to eat some scrambled eggs and another order of toast, and once again House snagged a piece off of his plate almost as soon as Lisette set it on the table.

House watched Wilson watching him as he reached for the toast, Wilson’s eyes narrowing with annoyance. House found it more than mildly amusing. It was obvious that Wilson was still trying to process everything that had happened to him over the previous 18 hours and House could all but see the questions he wanted to ask forming behind Wilson’s bloodshot eyes. He watched the younger man eat, tentatively at first in deference to his sensitive stomach, then with increasing enthusiasm as hunger won out over queasiness. 

As Wilson’s mind began to clear with the help of food and the headache powder, he decided to try and find out a bit more about the man who had just bailed him out of jail. 

“So you said you’re not from here, that you’re only in town for the conference?”

“Yep.”

“Where did you say you practice again?”

House eyed the younger man. “I didn’t. Are we back to playing 20 Questions?”

“Well, it’d be nice to know _something_ about the person who kept me from having to spend the entire weekend in jail.” Wilson could feel his ire beginning to rise. _God, what an ass._

“Fine. At the moment I work out of Jefferson Memorial in Princeton. I hold a double specialty in Infectious Disease and Nephrology, and am finishing my boards in Diagnostics. My boss is an idiot who can’t tell the difference between a kidney and a spleen and made me come to this stupid conference because he knows it’s exactly the last place I want to be.” 

“So why didn’t you just tell him no?”

“Because he made it very clear that if I didn’t go and represent the hospital, I’d be out looking for another job before the weekend was over. Thought about blowing it off anyway once I got down here. It is, after all, New Orleans. Way more fun things to do than spending 4 days with a bunch of insipid, boring doctors and administrators.”

With that, House refused to answer any more of Wilson’s questions. He was never one for idle conversation, and despised talking about himself in pretty much any context. They sat there in silence as Wilson finished his breakfast, House allowing Lisette to refill his mug every time she passed their table.

Curiosity finally got the better of him and House couldn’t help himself. “So what are you going to do now?”

“Go back to Trenton. Try to talk to Sam -- that’s my wife. See if there’s anything left to salvage.” Wilson shook his head morosely, still trying to wrap his mind about what he was going to be returning to and the inevitable arguments ahead. He sighed. “Check into a hotel.”

All at once Wilson took a long look at House, his eyes widening as pieces began to fit together. _Infectious Disease. Nephrology. Diagnostics._ “ _Gregory_ House? The legendary asshole of Princeton?”

“The very same.”

“And _you_ bailed me out of jail.”

“I did.”

Wilson became instantly suspicious. He had heard stories about this guy.

“What’s in it for you?” 

House shrugged. “I told you. It was a boring fucking convention. You were the only one there that wasn’t boring.”


	9. Chapter 9

Wilson insisted on paying the bill, and House was more than willing to let him. Wilson thanked Lisette profusely, assuring her that he was in fact feeling much better.

“Another satisfied customer!” Lisette chortled. She turned to House. “What time’s your flight tomorrow, Doc?”

“Noon. Don’t worry. I’ll be back tonight for dinner. And breakfast in the morning.”

“Y’all heading over to Bill’s later?”

“Absolutely. Something going on I ought to know about?”

Lisette shrugged. Bill had told her about the doc’s abilities at the piano. “He was askin’ after you. It’s Saturday. It’s N’awlins. Y’all never know who might show up to play.”

“I’ll be there.”

\--------------------------

House and Wilson made their way back to the hotel in the sweltering humidity of the afternoon. Wilson’s suit jacket was slung over one shoulder and he still carried the Express package with him. He felt clammy, and wanted nothing more than a long hot shower to scrub off the sweat and stink from his night in jail before crawling under the covers to try and forget everything about the last 18 hours.

“Who’s Bill?” Wilson asked.

“Guy who owns a bar just up the block from the diner. Found it after the conference let out on Thursday.”

“What did Lisette mean about showing up to play?”

“You ask too many questions. You want to know? Come see for yourself.”

Wilson considered this. He was flying home the next day and all he had experienced of New Orleans revolved around the conference, the hotel, and the jail. _Maybe I should go and check it out. It may be the only bit of fun I have for a very long time._

“What time?” Wilson asked, very nearly regretting having asked the question when he saw the mischievous look on House’s face. 

“I’ll meet you at your room at 6. We’ll grab some dinner first. Room 3302, right?”

Wilson stopped in his tracks and stared at House. “How the _hell_ do you know what room I’m in?”

House turned around and rolled his eyes. “Christ, Wilson. Don’t be so fucking paranoid.” He pointed at the Express package. “It’s right there on the packing slip.”

\-------------------------

Wilson closed the door to his hotel room and looked around. The tidiness of the room clashed with the chaos in his brain and the stench of his clothes, and Wilson couldn’t peel them off fast enough, leaving everything in a heap on the floor. He went into the bathroom and climbed into the tub, pulling the curtain closed and turning the shower on. He set the water temperature as hot as he could stand it and let the cascading water rain down on him.

\--------------------------

House tossed his backpack into the chair as he closed the door to his hotel room. He made a beeline for the minibar and poured himself a drink, carrying it over to the bed. Piling the pillows against the headboard, House made himself comfortable and turned the TV on, idly channel surfing between sips of scotch. Not surprisingly, he eventually found himself perusing the list of soft core porn selections available on one of the in-house channels but none of the choices captured his interest. Backtracking through the cable guide, House finally settled on a local channel that was showing a documentary on the history of music in New Orleans. In House’s mind, short of sex, there really was nothing better.

\--------------------------

Wilson turned the shower off and climbed out of the tub, grabbing a towel from the rack above the toilet. He rubbed the towel over his body as he left the bathroom in an effort to rid himself of the last bit of jail residue. Spotting the pile of clothes, he briefly considered the ramifications of starting a fire in his room. He let out a short, sardonic laugh at the thought as he kicked the clothes against the wall. _With my luck I’d probably wind up right back in jail and be labelled an arsonist. My career would be destroyed before it ever got started._

Wilson glanced at the clock next to the bed as he moved to crawl under the covers. He still hadn’t decided whether he was going to go to the bar with House later -- but at that exact moment, pulling the covers over his head to shut out the world seemed like the perfect thing to do.


	10. Chapter 10

House showed up at Room 3302 well before 6 and knocked on the door. When there was no answer after a few seconds, House began systematically pounding on the door. He thought he might have heard movement in the room, but otherwise it was quiet. 

\--------------------------

The muffled rhythmic pounding on the door beat in time to the pounding that had returned in Wilson’s head. At some point he thought he heard someone calling his name, but couldn’t be bothered to check. “Go ‘way,” he called, pulling a pillow over his head and burying himself deeper into the covers.

\--------------------------

House put his ear to the door, listening closely for renewed signs of movement. He heard a faint and muffled, “Go ‘way,” from somewhere inside, followed by more silence. House waited, toeing the carpet and weighing his options. He had a pretty good sense that Wilson was probably hidden under the covers of his bed and not in much of a mood to go out, but having decided that Wilson needed to quit feeling sorry for himself, House took matters into his own hands.

Surreptitiously looking up and down the hallway to make sure he wouldn’t be seen, House popped the lock on the door with a credit card and walked into the room. Sure enough, there was a Wilson-sized lump in the middle of the bed. House wandered over and yanked the covers back while Wilson tried in vain to keep the pillow over his head. 

Rolling onto his back, Wilson glared with bleary eyes at House. “What the _fuck_?!”

House looked down at him. “It’s 6 o’clock. Get up. I’m hungry.”

Wilson groaned as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. His head was still pounding, but House’s mention of being hungry caused his own stomach to grumble. House wandered over to the window and gazed out over the river while Wilson set about pulling fresh clothes out of his suitcase. He dressed casually, in a lightweight green polo and jeans, glad to finally be wearing a shirt that wasn’t a size too small. 15 minutes later they were headed out the door. 

As they rode the elevator down to the lobby, a thought occurred to Wilson. “How the hell did you get into my room?” 

House looked over at him and shrugged. “I popped the lock.”

Wilson was incredulous. “Are you always in the habit of breaking into places whenever you feel like it?”

House thought about it for a moment. “Yeah. Pretty much. Comes in handy.”

Wilson had no response to that. The elevator doors opened, and they walked across the lobby out into the early evening foot traffic. The sun hung low in the sky, but the air was still thick and humid. Being Saturday, tourists outnumbered the locals. They were easy to spot, with their garish clothing and varying states of drunkenness. 

House and Wilson wove their way around the tourists on their way to the diner. Leaving the growing crowds behind as they slid through the door, Wilson finally took the opportunity to get a good look around inside as Aimee pointed them toward the same booth they’d sat at earlier in the day. He had to admit it was quite a find. Busy but not crowded, Wilson could see why House had made it a point to eat there. The smells coming from the kitchen were almost enough to make him drool.

Picking up a worn and faded menu, Wilson looked over at House. “So what’s good?”

House didn’t hesitate. “Everything.”

Aimee made her way over to their table, order pad in hand. “Hey, Doc. Heard you might be back tonight. What can I get you boys?”

House decided to try the jambalaya after Aimee told him that the recipe Bobby used had been in the family for 3 generations. Wilson asked Aimee for suggestions, and after listening to several decided on the seafood gumbo. Aimee left to put in their order, returning with two glasses of iced tea. 

“Headed over to Bill’s tonight?” she asked, setting the glasses on the table.

House looked up at her and grinned wickedly. “You’ve been talking to Lisette about me? What’s Bobby gonna think?”

Aimee turned 3 shades of embarrassed as she walked away, laughing.

Wilson watched the interaction between Aimee and House and tried to square it with the stories he’d heard about the man. He decided that for whatever reason, House was in a good mood. Surely it couldn’t last. 

When the food arrived, it was all Wilson could do to keep from blindly shoveling spoonful after spoonful into his mouth. The gumbo looked and smelled incredible. He poked around the bowl, taking in all the different textures of the ingredients. House watched Wilson’s reaction from across the table as he took his first bite and noted that it was very similar to his own first reaction to Bobby’s cooking. Satisfied, House began to tuck into his own meal. 

By the time Aimee returned a few minutes later with french bread, both men were practically finished with their food. She chuckled at the sight of the doc’s friend, his face lightly flushed from the spices as he drank from the glass of tea.

Aimee couldn’t resist. “First experience with Cajun food?”

Wilson finished the dark and unsweetened tea before answering. “Yes. It was amazing. Thank you.”

Aimee nodded and glanced over at House, who was wiping the last bit of rice and sauce from his bowl with the crusty bread. “Y’all always eat this fast, Doc?”

“I do when the food’s this good. Tell Bobby he’d better keep that recipe in a safe.”

“He does. Y’all interested in dessert?” 

“Got any more of that pie?”

Aimee laughed. “For you, Doc? Always.” She turned to Wilson expectantly. Before he had a chance to open his mouth, House spoke for him. Wilson glared across the table.

“He’ll have the same. And coffee. Lots of coffee.”


	11. Chapter 11

After they finished and Wilson had paid the bill ( _Why do I get the feeling this could become a habit?_ he thought), they walked down the block toward the bar. They moved quickly, dodging the increasing number of tourists and drunken revelers who were weaving in both directions. Wilson was glad that House knew where he was going, because Wilson himself was already lost even though he knew they weren’t that far from the hotel. 

Wilson’s eyes widened as House suddenly stopped and reached for the handle of an old wooden door in a windowless storefront. Not for the first time that day, he couldn’t help but wonder just what House might be getting him into as they crossed into the even darker space. In the few moments that it took for Wilson’s eyes to adjust to the dim lighting, House had already settled himself onto an ancient barstool and ordered drinks for both of them. He noticed that several of the patrons raised their glasses in House’s direction in greeting as he sat down and wondered how so many people seemed to know the man when he’d only been in town for a few days.

Wilson had an unwelcome flashback to the previous night the moment he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the old mirror behind the bar. House noticed and threw a sarcastic and completely inappropriate joke his way in an effort to keep him from becoming a morose lump so early in the evening. Wilson laughed despite himself, profoundly grateful at the backhanded attempt to cheer him up. He turned on the bar stool and looked around. Spotting the dimly lit stage and instruments at the back of the room, he wondered if this was what Lisette meant about showing up to play. 

\-------------------------

House finished his first bourbon of the evening and found his gaze drawn repeatedly toward the piano. Bill wandered back down the bar to where House and Wilson sat while a younger man covered patrons’ drink orders at the opposite end. House introduced Bill to Wilson as Bill refilled their glasses. 

“So how do you know House?” Bill asked Wilson. “Y’all play too?”

House scoffed a muffled chuckle into his glass. Wilson glared in his direction before explaining to Bill that he was just there to enjoy the evening before having to leave for home the next day. He didn’t even bother to try to explain how he’d come to know House. House, on the other hand, was more than willing to share.

“I bailed him out of jail this morning,” House said to Bill, jerking his thumb toward Wilson. Wilson’s mouth dropped open as he glowered at House, speechless. Bill looked from House to Wilson and back, waiting for the punch line. When none was forthcoming, Bill laughed and shook his head, turning to check on the other patrons at his end of the bar. As soon as Bill’s back was to them, Wilson turned on House.

“ _What the ever-loving_ FUCK, _House?!_ ” Wilson seethed in a low voice.

House regarded Wilson impassively. To say the man was overreacting about such an offhanded comment spoke volumes.

“What? Bill asked how you knew me, so I told him.” When Wilson’s expression only got darker, House continued. “Oh, please. Relax. It’s not like anyone was paying attention. Besides, the way you look, Bill probably didn’t even believe me.”

“Whaddya mean, ‘the way I look’”? Wilson was starting to feel the effects of the bourbon, his voice rising ever so slightly and beginning to sound just a bit manic.

House merely rolled his eyes, then grabbed his drink and made off for the stage. The last thing he needed was for Wilson to get wound up enough to throw another bottle. Sitting down at the piano, House set his glass on the ancient water rings at the end of the keyboard. He placed his fingers on the keys and glanced back at Wilson, whose eyes widened slightly as House started into a rather funky zydeco-flavored jazz piece. House smiled a bit to himself, actually glad for once that he had managed to diffuse the situation rather than inflame it, and let the music carry him away.

\-------------------------

Wilson watched as House’s whole demeanor changed the moment he began to play. The stories he’d heard about House had always been so derisive -- that he was a sarcastic, narcissistic but completely brilliant ass who had already been fired from 2 different hospitals in the Tri-State area -- and while he certainly had to agree with the ass part of the description, he was beginning to think that some of the stories might be somewhat overblown.

As soon as the music began to fill the space, other patrons began to make their way up to the stage. They picked up instruments that were already there, opened cases and began tuning those instruments that they’d brought with them, and Wilson marveled at how quickly people picked up on what House was playing. It didn’t take long for the music to take over the entire bar.

\-------------------------

When House found his glass empty, he pulled himself away from the piano and went back to sit next to Wilson. One of the other patrons took his place and seamlessly joined in the jam session. Wilson stared at House in awe as House signaled another round to Bill, taking in the light sheen of sweat on House’s brow and the gleam in his eye. House could feel himself getting uncomfortable at Wilson’s incessant gaze, and glared back.

“Wow,” Wilson started, impressed. House’s glare turned quizzical. " _Wow._ I had no idea you could play like that.”

House turned his eyes forward and shrugged as he took a long pull from his glass. Wilson could see barriers being erected behind House’s eyes and couldn’t help but wonder what was going on in there. He turned his own eyes forward and the two men drank in silence as the music played on.

\-------------------------

Wilson had no intention of staying at the bar until closing. He had a 10am flight into Newark the next morning and an hour and a half drive home after that if traffic was light. House, Wilson quickly came to learn, had other ideas. He always had a reason why they had to stay. Usually that involved “just one more.” Sometimes it was because House would spontaneously get up from his spot at the bar and head back onto the stage with whoever happened to be up there, picking up whatever instrument wasn’t being played at the time and joining in as if he’d been doing it forever. Other times it was because he was busy chatting up the local girls with an easy sense of teasing and not-quite flirting. Wilson lost count of how many different instruments House played that night. He also lost count of the number of “just one mores” the two of them drank. He was well and truly drunk, but truth be told he was also having a good time. This was exactly what he’d needed.

Watching as House got up and headed back to the stage one more time slightly unsteady on his feet, Wilson was surprised to find that he actually liked being around the man. He still thought House was an ass, but that was a trait he was willing to overlook. There was a lot to admire, despite the stories. 

\--------------------------

House had no intention of leaving the bar until he absolutely had to. The last thing he wanted to do was return to the daily routine and constant badgering by his boss at Jefferson. Between flight time and the minimum one hour drive to get to his apartment if traffic was light, it would practically be evening before he got home. At that moment however, as he picked up a guitar from the stage, there was no place else House wanted to be. Pulling the guitar strap over his head and checking the tuning, House caught a glimpse of Wilson’s face as he relaxed and enjoyed the impromptu jam session taking place. He was secretly glad to see the younger man actually having a good time rather than tying himself up in knots over what he’d be facing once he got home. Any other thoughts that House might’ve had disappeared as he began to play.

\--------------------------

Bill shook both House and Wilson’s hands and wished them well as he shooed everyone out of the bar at closing. They peeled away from the crowd of musicians and patrons flowing out into the night, heading back to the hotel with their arms flung over each other’s shoulders as they wove their way drunkenly down the block. Wilson chattered animatedly about absolutely nothing as House attempted to keep them both upright. His brain was swimming as the adrenaline from the evening started to wear off, and all he wanted to do was sleep. Wilson, on the other hand, wouldn’t shut the fuck up.

\--------------------------

House poured Wilson into his room, leaving him sprawled across the bed. Relieved at the sudden silence when he re-entered the hallway, House staggered toward the elevators and his own room. He got as far as kicking off his sneakers before passing out in the center of the bed.


	12. Chapter 12

Sunday

Wilson jolted awake the third time the phone began to ring. He looked around, disoriented, and wondered how he’d managed to get from the bar to his room. The last thing he remembered was Bill shooing everyone out of the bar at closing time, and even that was a fuzzy memory. He sat up and groaned, holding his head. The shrill pulse of the phone beat in time to his second hangover in as many days, and he reached over to answer it if for no other reason than to make the noise stop.

“H’lo?” Wilson mumbled into the phone.

“James?”

 _Sam_. Wilson’s head shot up, his mind crystal clear and instantly wary. “Sam. Hi.”

“Is everything okay? This is the third time I’ve called.”

 _What the fuck kind of question is that?! You just served me with divorce papers -- how is_ anything _supposed to be okay?!_ “Yeah. Everything’s fine.”

“I just wanted to double check when your flight’s supposed to get in.”

The words left Wilson’t mouth before he realized he was saying them. “Why? So you can be sure not to be there when I get home?” he said bitterly.

The stony silence on the other end of the line told him everything he needed to know.

\--------------------------

The dueling cacophony of sound that was both the alarm going off and the phone ringing sent searing pain through House’s brain as he struggled awake. Rolling over to sit up, he pressed the heels of his palms into his eyelids before yanking the cord to the alarm clock out of the wall as he reached for the phone.

“Somebody better be dying,” House growled dangerously into the receiver.

The hotel clerk on the other end was rendered speechless by the menacing voice. After several long seconds, she squeaked out, “Uhm...this is the front desk, Dr. House. You asked for a wake up call,” before quickly hanging up the phone.

House stared at the now-dead receiver for a moment, then slammed it onto the cradle. _Fuck._ He rubbed his hands over his face, getting up and making his way into the bathroom. After relieving the pressure in his bladder, House reached over and turned on the shower. He climbed into the tub, folding himself to fit under the shower head and tilting his face up to meet the stinging spray.

\--------------------------

Wilson felt numb as he stood in the shower, trying to wrap his brain around Sam’s phone call. He wanted to scream. He wanted to cry. He wanted to punch the shit out of something. Most of all, he wanted not to care.

\--------------------------

House wandered out of the bathroom, toweling himself off and draping the towel around his neck as he rummaged through his bag for clothes. He was looking forward to one last decent relaxing breakfast before getting a cab out to the airport. After dressing, he stuffed his worn clothes into the duffle bag and was pulling on his sneakers when the phone rang again. He glared at it as it rang several times before finally answering.

“ _What?!_ ” House snarled.

Wilson was taken aback by the venom in House’s voice. _Definitely not a morning person_ , he thought with wry amusement.

“House. It’s James Wilson.”

“The fuck d’you want this time of the morning?” 

Wilson ignored the vitriol. “I thought maybe we could have breakfast together before heading out to the airport.”

House sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I’m probably going to regret saying this but… Fine. 15 minutes. Meet me in the lobby.” House hung up the phone without another word.

\--------------------------

They walked to the diner in relative silence, Wilson trying to engage House in conversation while House ignored every idle comment and deflected every question along the way.

Lisette was surprised to see the doc and his friend walk through the door as she made the coffee rounds. She was sure they had already left the city. She watched them settle into the same booth they’d sat at the day before. Lisette walked behind the counter, swapped out the empty coffee pot for a full one and grabbed a couple of large mugs on her way over to their booth. 

\-------------------------

House could tell by the look on Wilson’s face that he was trying to process something and needed to vent. Holding the menu up to his face so he wouldn’t have to watch the shifting emotions, House tried to decide what to eat. He spotted Lisette approaching the table from his periphery and shot her a sly grin from behind the menu.

“‘Mornin’, boys. Didn’t expect to see y’all back here. Heard things ran late over at Bill’s last night.” Lisette chuckled as she set the mugs down and poured their coffee. 

House snickered while Wilson groaned, reaching for the coffee and taking as large a swallow as the hot liquid would allow. Lisette looked from one man to the other as they placed their orders. She shook her head, grinning to herself as she walked away wondering how two people so very different could be friends. 

\-------------------------

Wilson could no longer keep the morning’s conversation to himself. “Sam called,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant but failing miserably at it.

House looked over the top of the menu at Wilson. “The evil bitch who just served you with divorce papers? That Sam?”

Wilson nodded, staring into his coffee cup. “She said she was just double-checking on what time my flight is due in.”

House was only half-listening. He put down the menu and didn’t think twice before responding. “Yeah. So she could make sure she’s not there when you get home.”

Wilson looked up at House In amazement. “How could you _possibly_ know that?”

House shrugged. “Why else would she call?”

Wilson thought about it, and had to admit House had a point. While he was considering a response, Lisette returned with their food. She put their plates down and let them know she’d be back with more coffee. 

House reached across the table and snagged a piece of bacon from Wilson’s plate. Wilson rolled his eyes and his brain briefly flirted with the idea of stabbing House’s hand with a fork to teach him a lesson, but instead used his fork to cut into the massive waffle that almost covered his entire plate.

“Is it even remotely possible for you to eat without taking something off of my plate first?”

House grinned, chewing on the bacon. “Nope.”

\-------------------------

After they finished their meals, Wilson found himself paying the bill yet again. Lisette and House looked at each other for a long moment before she grinned at him and swatted him in the arm with her order pad. 

“Y’all don’t be a stranger now, Doc. I expect you to come back and visit.”

House shot her an impish grin. “Where else am I gonna go?”

Lisette laughed and turned to Wilson, hugging him. “Y’all better come back too. Someone’s gotta keep him out of trouble.”

\-------------------------

House and Wilson made the short walk back to the hotel from the diner, each lost in their own thoughts. Neither man said anything until the elevator doors slid closed.

“Thank you,” Wilson began.

House said nothing. _Here it comes_ , he thought derisively. He stopped listening as Wilson went on about how much he appreciated what House had done for him...something...and nodding absently as the doors opened to the third floor. Wilson offered his hand before leaving the elevator.

“Bye, House.”

House shook the offered hand. “Bye, Wilson.”

\-------------------------

It wasn’t until a few days later, when Wilson finally had a chance to unpack his things from the trip, that he found the note with the lawyer’s name and number written on it. He briefly wondered if he should call the number, see if the lawyer had been able to get the charges dropped. Then he remembered the first words House had said after bailing him out of jail. _I took care of it._

Wilson crumpled up the slip of paper and threw it away. 

FIN


End file.
